Love in the Shadows

22.

AT THE DAIRY, MAURICE had complained bitterly to Fabienne about how the extended cold weather had affected the milk yield, which was down another churn this week. They had had a similar problem the previous year, he told the familiar guard. She had agreed with him as the van had been loaded with additional crates for the German barracks and only half a churn for French citizens. It was better than nothing, and Fabienne would supplement it from the stock they kept hidden in the disused cave near the cheese factory.

The officious, intense guard had been moved to a new post that morning, which was some relief as he had a keen eye for detail and an unbending will to do his job to the highest standard. He was the perfect soldier and a giant pain in the arse to them.

She left the dairy and stopped at the church, gathered up the wrapped cheese and butter from the footwell in the van, and started through the graveyard to the front doors. She had Esther Rosenblatt’s Ausweis tucked in a pocket inside her coat.

“Halt!”

Fabienne stopped. Her heart thundered, and she prayed they didn’t search her. “Guten morgen, Herr Sturmführer.” She smiled.

The senior of the two guards waved his hand at her. “Papers.”

Fabienne pulled out her I.D. and handed it over.

“What are you doing out at this time, Fraulein Brun?” He glared at her through ice-blue eyes that reminded her of a bird of prey.

“I work at the dairy, mein Herr. It is my job. I have a permit.” She handed over the document.

He cast his eyes across it, though too quickly to read it. “What is that?” He indicated to the package.

“I am under instruction directly from the kommandant to deliver this to Father Michel. I believe it is some sort of remedy, since he has been working closely with your sick officers and soldiers, mein Herr. I don’t know exactly what is in it.”

He glared at her, sniffed. “It stinks. Get out of here.” He held out her papers and let them go before she had a hold. She bent to pick them up and he kneed her in the face and kicked her arm as he walked past.

She gritted her teeth to stop from yelling out as the pain soared and she fell to the ground. She was sure the wound had split open from the warm feeling that trickled down her arm. She touched her nose and stared at the blood on her fingers.

The church door opened. “Fabienne, are you okay?” Father Michel came to her, helped her to stand, led her into the church, and gave her a handkerchief from under his vestment. She put it to her nose, and they walked towards the altar. He bowed his head. Fabienne took a seat in the front pew. The church was empty at this time of day.

He sat next to her. “I’m sorry you got hurt. What can I do for you, Fabienne?”

Fabienne took out Esther’s identity document. “I need new papers for this woman.”

He glanced at the Ausweis. “This is not wise.”

“I don’t have a choice, Father. Can you arrange for the papers, or not?” Fabienne suspected the forger was the printer’s wife who used to be an artist before the war, but she couldn’t approach her directly because it would be a break in protocol, and she might be wrong.

“I will pass them on.”

“I need them back today.”

He shook his head. “You are asking too much. The German soldiers are doing house to house searches at the drop of a hat, looking for the escaped prisoners. This will take time.”

Fabienne nodded. It would only be a matter of time before their cottage was searched too. “I don’t have time, Father.”

He made a cross against his body as if he had just finished a prayer. “I cannot promise, but if it is possible the new papers will be at the brasserie at eight-thirty this evening.”

“And two identities for babies, one a girl and the other a boy, born today.” She didn’t know when the woman might give birth, but it was better to have the documents for when she did.

Father Michel frowned and shook his head. “I will do my best.”

Fabienne handed him the food package and left the church. She went to her parents’ graves and stared at the headstones. Would her name soon be carved on one next to them? She closed her eyes and prayed, then headed into town.

The main street was already buzzing with German soldiers, who moved in pairs and stopped people randomly to check their papers. She was stopped a second time before she reached the bakery.

She joined the queue behind fifteen other people outside the shop, which now also served meat since Müller had burned down Madame Guillaume’s butchery. Fabienne thrust her hands deep into her pockets, watching the soldiers. There was a new breed of German arriving. Young, arrogant and more violent than before. It didn’t bode well for anyone.

The man in front of her turned and raised his eyebrows. “I hear Hitler’s rounding up the gypsies now.”

The man behind her tugged his coat collar higher up his neck. “Eisenhower will save the day.”

A man closer to the shop turned to face them. “No, de Gaulle is going to free us.”

The shop door opened and the man at the front of the queue was allowed inside.

“And the gypsies?” a deep voice behind Fabienne asked. “What will happen to them and the Jews?”

A woman tutted and scowled at the men who had started the discussion. “Can we talk about something else?”

Fabienne lit a cigarette.

The grey-haired old man with the deep voice continued. “Poor bastards.”

“Trotters and potatoes,” a man said as he exited the shop. It wasn’t enough for him to smile, but he would have something to eat this week.

Madame Guillaume joined the queue and caught Fabienne’s attention. The marks on her face had gone, but her cheeks were gaunt, and she no longer looked pregnant. She touched her belly as she held Fabienne’s gaze.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Brun.”

“Bonjour, Madame. How are you?”

“A little better, thank you. Things have changed. You know, I have no business to tend to anymore.”

Fabienne glanced at her belly. “I am sorry, Madame.”

“I did not want to conceive a child in that way, nor from a man like him, but in the end, I did not want to lose it either. It becomes a bigger part of you than you can imagine, growing inside you.”

Fabienne noted the pain in her eyes, the fatigue that had reduced her in both stature and confidence. She hoped she could pass on some good news about Müller soon. It wasn’t much to offer, and it wouldn’t put food on her table, but it was justice and that might go some way to consoling Madame Guillaume in her grief.

Fabienne was called into the shop.

“That’s the last of it,” Monsieur said, taking the stamp from her ration card. He handed her the package.

She took the meat and the four small potatoes and left the shop.

“No more rations today,” Monsieur shouted.

The men and women in the queue moaned and started to disperse.

Fabienne caught up with Madame. “Please, take these.”

Madame shook her head. “I can’t. You have other mouths to feed.”

Fabienne shook her head. “Please, take them. I have potatoes at home, and trotters are not our favourite.” She smiled to lighten the situation. It wasn’t a matter of what food they liked or didn’t like; it was a matter of someone needing it more than they did. They were in a fortunate position, cooking for the kommandant, and although it galled Fabienne to take anything from a German, she wasn’t so proud as to cut off the hand that would give her the energy to fight against them.

Madame smiled, though the air of sadness she now wore like an old coat didn’t lift. “Are you sure?”

Fabienne thrust the package into her hand. “I made a promise, Madame. I intend to keep it.”

A spark of recognition appeared in Madame’s expression, and Fabienne settled knowing she would get through another day with hope. Now Fabienne had to get back to the house. The thought of seeing Johanna set off butterflies in her stomach, which was both pleasant and unhelpful.

***

Johanna’s thoughts about what else she could do to help Fabienne as she walked down the stairs were interrupted by a knock on the front door.

A tall slender man in his grey-and-black uniform, a small suitcase at his feet, clicked his heels. “Guten morgen, Frau Neumann. I am Obersturmführer Schmidt. I have been assigned to guard your house. Heil Hitler.” He clicked his heels again and saluted.

Johanna’s heart sank. He was no more than a boy and far too keen. She turned from the door, and he entered the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Please let me know how I can be of service,” he said. He followed her like a puppy into the kitchen.

“This is Frau Tussaud. She and her granddaughter, who will be here shortly, cook for us and take care of the house, so if you want to be well fed you will treat them both with respect.”

He bowed his head. “Of course, Frau Neumann. I am always a gentleman.”

She liked that he was young enough to still be blindly obedient, unlike Müller who was an old dog and knew all the tricks to usurp her authority. She poured a jug of water and handed it to him. “My daughter is studying on the second floor, third door on the right when you get to the top of the stairs. Could you take this to the classroom?”

He took the jug. “And which room shall I sleep in, Frau Neumann.”

“You can billet in the annex, on the other side of the archway. Hauptmann Müller has a bedroom there. You can take the second one. Take him some soup when you come back from the classroom, but be aware that he has the influenza so don’t get too close.”

He clicked his heels and scurried away. Johanna went upstairs and towards her husband’s bedroom. She hadn’t entered his room since arriving, and she approached it now with a sense of trepidation, a feeling that he would catch her snooping. It was ridiculous because he wouldn’t be home until late evening and even if he did arrive unexpectedly, she would see the car approaching from his window, or, if she was distracted, hear him thundering through the front door. She would have sufficient warning to be able to get to her own room down the corridor before he tracked her down.

The room smelled of him – faintly of the aftershave he used sparingly, and strongly of his body odour, his leather boots and the wool uniform. His desk was neat and tidy, as he always kept it. A pile of papers to one side, a pot of black ink and blotting paper, his small clock set in a mahogany wood surround that his father had given him when he graduated university. It could be his desk at their house in Berlin, but it wasn’t his. It was borrowed, stolen. She read the top sheet of paper; a motivational piece of propaganda that would have been sent to all the kommandants about how well their armies were advancing. There was no mention of how they were failing on the Eastern front, or of Africa.

She flicked through the other pieces of paper. More of the same, and the names of troops being despatched, locations, maps. She wanted to study them, but nerves put her on edge, and this wasn’t what she was looking for. She opened the desk drawer. There they were – small slips of paper, the telegrams. She picked up the top one and started to read.

Operation Dijon.

2nd June, 21.00 hrs.

What did it mean?

The hard click of heels made her jump. She threw the paper in the drawer, closed it, and turned to see Schmidt.

“Sorry to disturb, Frau Neumann. What should I do next?”

Johanna’s heart pulsed so hard, she thought she was going to pass out. She held onto the desk and gathered her thoughts. Had he seen she was snooping? She rubbed her brow to hide her embarrassment and cleared her throat.

“I think we are safe in here. Why don’t you check the perimeter and the garden? Make sure the guttering is still intact,” she said, to get rid of him.

He clicked his heels, saluted, about-turned. The tap of his boots as he marched down the corridor and made his way down the stairs was notably lighter than Gerhard’s. Johanna stood with her hand on her chest. At the click of the front door, she left her husband’s bedroom and went to her own to ponder the message. This was information she should pass on to Fabienne.